


Farewell Mr. Pink

by onstraysod



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Comedy, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 05:46:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4907701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/pseuds/onstraysod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Gilbert Norrell's coachman gives notice, John Childermass decides it's time to teach Norrell a lesson about how to properly treat his servants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Farewell Mr. Pink

**Author's Note:**

> For mayseriouslyunusual, who requested a story about Norrell being insensitive and Childermass trying to correct him.

Gilbert Norrell could scarcely credit it when, after seventeen years of steady service, his coachman came in one day to give his notice.

"I cannot understand it!" he fumed to Childermass once they were in the library. "Seventeen years! Seventeen years of good treatment, of having his own quarters above the coach house-- and suddenly he quits! To take a job with the Wetherby's in Ripon, no less." Norrell sighed. "I cannot fathom what Grey could have to complain of."

"Perhaps that, sir," Childermass offered quietly.

"What?"

"You've been calling him Grey for seventeen years."

Norrell stared at Childermass. "And?"

"His name is Brown, sir."

Norrell blinked several times in quick succession. "Well," he said at last, sitting down behind his desk, "he is leaving and I shall soon find myself without a coachman. You must waste no time in procuring a replacement, Childermass."

So Childermass advertised the position and within a week Brown's replacement had been hired: an amiable young man from York named Davey. Mr. Norrell kept a relatively small staff for an estate of Hurtfew's size and Davey's duties included some of those of a footman in addition to driving and maintaining Norrell's carriages. His performance of these duties, however, as well as his cheerful demeanor, were commendable and made him a popular addition to the servants' quarters. He, in turn, had no complaints about his new situation, save one which he confessed rather sheepishly to Childermass about a month into his employment.

"The master, sir," Davey said, hesitantly. "He don't seem to know who I am."

Childermass decided to look into the matter right away and went to confer with Norrell in the library. Norrell was contemplating a reorganization of the western bookshelves that afternoon, a monumental task which would require the aid of one of the footmen.

"Lucas has already committed to helping Penny (that was the under gardener) with trimming the hedges this afternoon," Childermass told him.

"Well then I suppose the other will have to do," Norrell said, rather absentmindedly.

"The other, sir?"

"Yes - the coachman. Danny. He will do, won't he?"

Childermass cleared his throat. "I'm sure he would do very well, sir. If we had someone by that name employed here."

Norrell looked up, bewildered. "What are you talking about Childermass?"

"You're doing it again, sir." Childermass approached the desk and leaned upon it, holding his master's gaze. "The new man's name is Davey. You don't want to lose another coachman already, do you?"

"Why should I?" Norrell cried. "Over a little thing like his name?"

"A little thing." Childermass straightened and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, like a man getting a migraine. "Sir, a servant's life is not an easy one. It's rather thankless, and often all they possess is their name and the approval of those they work for. How are they supposed to know you're satisfied with their work when you can't even remember their names correctly?"

Norrell's cheeks reddened slightly and there was a sharp, flinty light in his eyes. Childermass braced himself. "They should know that well enough by how they're treated! Are they not treated well, Childermass? Are they not fed well and clothed well and kept well, most of them even having their own rooms? And are they not paid well, better - did you not say so yourself - than servants in many of the houses hereabouts?"

"Aye, sir, you're most generous. But they're not horses to be satisfied with warm stalls and plenty of fodder. They are people and they would like to think that their master knows a little something of them and even takes a bit of interest in their lives."

Norrell emitted a low snort as if to punctuate the ridiculous nature of this statement, but then he caught sight of Childermass's scowl and quickly became serious. "What would you suggest I do, Childermass?"

"Nothing so easy, sir. Remember their names. Surely that won't prove a difficulty. You've a small enough staff and, besides that, you've committed five hundred years of English magic to memory."

"And what else?" Norrell asked, though his expression clearly indicated he did not particularly want to hear it.

"You could be a little more accommodating of their personal lives, sir. For instance, two months ago when Harper (this was the cook) got the news that her brother'd passed? You gave her a half-day off to attend his funeral. But that wasn't enough time for her to grieve him. Be advised by me in these matters, Mr. Norrell. Do these few little things and you won't be needing to replace any staff for a long time to come."

Norrell sighed. "Very well, Childermass. As long as work continues to be done in an acceptable manner, I suppose I could try-- I can make an effort to be-- to be--"

"More personable, sir," Childermass suggested.

"More personable," Norrell repeated through a tight sneer.

***

So it was that, several weeks later when a personal tragedy again struck the servants' quarters, Childermass resolved to test his master's commitment to these small alterations in behavior. He came into the library at tea time and, as he had anticipated, found Norrell complaining about the lateness of his repast.

"Hannah will be bringing it soon, sir."

"Hannah?" Norrell's brow furrowed. "That's not the one who usually brings it, is it? It's usually the smallish one, the young girl--" He stopped, noticing the scrutinizing look that Childermass was giving him, and he swallowed nervously, like a schoolboy being asked to deliver a recitation. "Lee-- Laa--" Norrell watched Childermass's expression closely as he strung out these sounds. "Loo--" Childermass nodded encouragingly. "Loo-- oo-- ucy!"

"Very good, sir. Yes, it is usually Lucy who brings your tea, but I've given her the morning off her duties. She's had some upsetting news."

Norrell said nothing in response to this and Childermass raised one eyebrow.

"This would be the moment, sir, when you might say how sorry you are to hear that and inquire as to the nature of her misfortune."

Norrell frowned but did as was required. "I am sorry to hear it. What has happened?"

"A death, sir. Someone she cared for very much."

"Indeed?" Norrell looked genuinely thoughtful now. "I had not expected-- She is very young, is she not? Lucy?"

"Fifteen, sir."

"Fifteen." Norrell shook his head. "That is very hard." When Childermass looked at him with some surprise, Norrell continued in a quiet voice: "To lose someone you care for when you are young, it is-- well, it is difficult."

Norrell was no doubt thinking of his mother, whom he had lost in his infancy. Childermass almost felt a pang of regret for having brought the subject up.

"A family member, I suppose?" Norrell asked.

"No. A friend." Childermass hesitated. "Mr. Pink."

"Pink? What an odd name. Well, Childermass, you may give Lucy the whole day off."

"That is very kind of you, Mr. Norrell."

Childermass left the library feeling very satisfied. He had not anticipated that his suggestions would be adopted by Mr. Norrell so thoroughly. He spent the afternoon feeling very pleased with himself, even joining the other servants downstairs for supper in the fullness of his good spirits. But he was no less surprised than all the others when the door to the servants' dining hall opened and Mr. Norrell walked nervously in.

"Is something amiss, Mr. Norrell?" he asked, rising like the others.

"No, no-- please." Norrell waved his hand to indicate that they should all resume their seats. Lucy was perched on the chair just in front of him and it was to her that Norrell now turned, blinking rapidly.

"I merely wished to say, Lucy-- Well, Childermass told me of your loss and I-- I wished to give you my sympathies and tell you that if there is anything that I might do--"

"Oh Mr. Norrell!" Lucy burst into tears and, jumping up from her chair, threw herself impulsively against Norrell and buried her wet face against the collar of his coat. Norrell went very rigid, wholly uncertain how to react. His eyes, grown round as saucers, caught Childermass's gaze over Lucy's shoulder and Childermass made a helpful gesture which Norrell copied, reluctantly and very stiffly patting Lucy on the arm: once, twice, three times, which seemed to be the utmost limit of what he could do. "There-- there," he muttered, and Childermass came forward and gently eased Lucy away.

"You're so kind, Mr. Norrell," Lucy spluttered, raising the hem of her apron to dab at her tears. "I never expected such a kindness. It was ever such a shock, sir, I'd no idea he was ill--"

"I understand," Norrell told her. "Which is why I should like to help. If I may be allowed to, I should like to pay the expenses for the funeral."

The dining hall went so silent at Norrell's words that you might have heard the steam rising from the stew. The eyes of all the servants, wide with astonishment, were fixed on Norrell and several jaws had fallen slack. Lucas was so overcome that he had to lift his napkin and practically hide his entire face behind it. Norrell smiled a little at the reactions, his chest puffing out a bit with pride. Even Childermass seemed struck dumb by the gesture.

Lucy was the first of them to recover. She gazed at Norrell with some confusion and, her tears now ended, wiped at a last wet spot on her cheek with the back of her hand. "Oh, I-- that's most kind I'm sure, sir, but-- I don't reckon there's any need for that. Seeing as how Mrs. Harper's already given me an empty kipper box and I buried him in the geranium patch this afternoon."

Now it was Norrell's turn to look bewildered. "I beg your pardon?"

"Sir--" Childermass came forward and grasped Norrell's arm, while at the same moment the cook, Mrs. Harper, began to speak:

"Wait a moment now, Lucy. It's a generous offer Mr. Norrell's made, to help you with your grieving. What do you say we have a little service, like? A reading from Scripture, maybe, and a little cold luncheon after? I can run down to the market in the morning, if Mr. Norrell will permit me, and get a few things special-- maybe some of them fancy cheeses what Mr. Pink fancied?"

"Cheeses?" Norrell muttered.

Lucy seemed pleased by Mrs. Harper's idea, but Norrell was by this time completely confused. He allowed Childermass to steer him out of the servants' hall and up the stairs, all the while asking questions.

"She has buried the man in my geraniums? But surely-- no, the poor girl must be deranged--"

"Mr. Norrell--"

"Whatever did she mean about the kipper box? No one could fit in a kipper box. Was the man killed in some kind of explosion, Childermass?"

"Sir, I may not have explained matters as well as I should have done," Childermass said as they reached the main hall. "I told you truly when I said that Mr. Pink was someone Lucy cared for very much. But I never said he was a man."

"Not-- not a man?" Norrell repeated, looking more confused than ever.

"Aye sir. Mr. Pink--" And here Childermass paused to draw a deep breath, as if it might be the last he ever took-- or least the last under the roof of Hurtfew Abbey. "Mr. Pink was a rat."

It took a few seconds before Norrell could form the word and, even when he did, he could only mouth it, not having the strength to emit any sound.

"Lucy was an orphan, remember? Well, no, you probably don't remember," Childermass conceded. "Anyway, she brought the creature with her when she came to work here, and as it had been her pet for a number of years - and considering how young she was - I hadn't the heart to part her from it. I gave her leave to keep it in a cage in her room."

Norrell's lips moved, silently for some moments until he was finally able to squeak: "A rat. You-- you let a servant keep a-- a rat-- in my house?"

"A pet rat, sir," Childermass said. "And loved by that girl no less for being a rat."

Norrell was spluttering. "You-- you let me make a fool of myself in front of the servants over a-- a dead rodent!"

Childermass sighed and folded his arms across his chest. "I think you're wrong, sir. I don't think they'll see it in any such light. Well, perhaps Lucas will, but Lucas laughs at everything-- he's young and daft that way. But the older ones-- and Lucy, who's walked a hard road despite her youth-- they won't think of it as foolishness. Unless kindness is a form of foolishness and, if it is, well-- We'd all be better off with a good deal more foolishness, wouldn't we?"

Norrell seemed slightly mollified by Childermass's words, but he still kept muttering the word "rat" silently to himself and shivering each time he did so. "But, Childermass-- if I had known it was a rat!"

"But you didn't, sir. And perhaps that illustrates the point I've been making."

Norrell stared at him. "How so?"

Childermass shrugged. "If you'd troubled to get to know Lucy better, you'd have known all about Mr. Pink. And then you'd not have offered to pay for his funeral."

Norrell seemed to be struggling to come up with some retort to the logic of this. Just then an elderly man came up the stairs from the servants' hall and approached him.

There was only one servant at Hurtfew Abbey to whom Norrell had always shown a measure of deference and this was Nigel Bixby, the head gardener. Perhaps it was because Bixby had worked for Norrell's uncle, Haythornthwaite, whom Norrell had always held in high esteem. For whatever reason, Norrell's angry expression softened somewhat at Bixby's approach.

"What is it, Mr. Bixby?"

"Nothin' t'all, sir, nothin' t'all. Cepting I wished to shake your hand." The old man clasped one of Norrell's hands between both of his own. "I've worked in the gardens of great houses since I was a lad of eleven. Houses all over Yorkshire, under many different masters. Under your uncle for close to thirty-five years. But, Mr. Norrell, I never seen a kinder gesture from any master than what you just shown to that girl. She's been a'grieving something terrible for that creature. And, well sir-- I just wanted to thank you."

Bixby wrung Norrell's hand a few more times before turning to shuffle off. "Oh, and Mr. Norrell," he said, pausing. "It may not be my place to say so, sir, but-- I reckon you've made your Uncle Haythornthwaite a sight proud today."

When the old man had departed there was a silence between Norrell and Childermass, but Childermass could clearly discern the effect the gardener's words had had upon his master. Norrell had clasped his hands behind his back, taking on the pose of a great lord of the manor, and the flush in his cheeks was no longer one of embarrassment or anger, but one of pleasure. After a few moments in which he let Norrell bask in the afterglow of praise, Childermass cleared his throat.

"Shall I pack my things, sir?"

"What?"

"Am I dismissed, sir?"

Norrell's attention snapped back to the present moment. "Oh, don't be ridiculous Childermass! Of course you're not dismissed. Though you did trick me and I am angry! You shall move all the books from the south shelves to the east shelves--"

"Aye sir."

"And you shall do it without any assistance, and have it finished by tomorrow evening. Is that understood?"

Childermass tried-- and failed-- to constrain his smile. "Aye sir."

"Good." Norrell sighed. "And now that this is all settled I shall return to the library. And I wish to be left undisturbed for the rest of the evening, and for all of tomorrow for that matter!"

"Very good, sir," Childermass said, watching Norrell start to walk away. "But just one thing, Mr. Norrell."

"What is it?"

Childermass bit down hard upon the side of his tongue, forcing his face to keep a serious expression. "I'll have to fetch you tomorrow for the service."

Norrell was livid. "No, Childermass! Not on any account--"

"It would be an odd thing, sir, for the benefactor whose generosity is paying for the service not to attend it," Childermass explained.

Various colors passed in succession over Norrell's face: scarlet, a kind of bluish-purple, and finally a bloodless white. His fists clenched at his sides and he was silent for some moments. Finally he seemed to have mastered himself sufficiently to respond. "Very well," he said through gritted teeth. "But I'm warning you, Childermass: I will NOT be giving the eulogy!" And he spun on his heel, the tail of his wig jumping in the air, and walked quickly away.

  
  


**Author's Note** : As an animal lover I respect and cherish all creatures and I know that rats can make excellent pets that are greatly loved by their owners. It was not my intention with this story to make fun of any animal or make light of the death of a pet, which I know only too well is a terribly sad event in any pet owner's life. The only creature I intended to make fun of with this story was Norrell, and that with love.


End file.
